And next I see a stripe of black,
For a life fulfilled of bitter lack.” 
Quoth one, “So fair a wind doth blow
That we shall see Norway soon enow.” 
“Be blithe, O shipmate,” Snæbiorn said,
“Tell Hacon the Earl that I be dead.” 
About the midst of the Iceland main
Round veered the wind to the east again. 
And west they drave, and long they ran
Till they saw a land was white and wan. 
“Yea,” Snæbiorn said, “my home it is,
Ye bear a man shall have no bliss. 
Far off beside the Greekish sea
The maidens pluck the grapes in glee. 
Green groweth the wheat in the English land,
And the honey-bee flieth on every hand. 
In Norway by the cheaping town
The laden beasts go up and down. 
In Iceland many a mead they mow
And Hallgerd’s grave grows green enow. 
But these are Gunnbiorn’s skerries wan,
Meet harbour for a hapless man. 
In all lands else is love alive,
But here is nought with grief to strive. 
Fail not for a while, O eastern wind,
For nought but grief is left behind. 
And before me here a rest I know,”
So many times over comes summer again,
“A grave beneath the Greenland snow,”
What healing in summer if winter be vain?

ECHOES OF LOVE’S HOUSE

Love gives every gift whereby we long to live: 
“Love takes every gift, and nothing back doth give.”

Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb: 
“Love locks up the lips whence all things good might come.”

Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see: 
“Love makes blind the eyes to all but me and thee.”

Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain: 
“Love turns life to woe till hope is nought and vain.”

Love, who changest all, change me nevermore! 
“Love, who changest all, change my sorrow sore!”

Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest,
“Love burns up the world to a void of all unrest.”

And there we twain are left, and no more work we need: 
“And I am left alone, and who my work shall heed?”

Ah!  I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won! 
“And is my praise nought worth for all my life undone?”

THE BURGHERS’ BATTLE

Thick rise the spear-shafts o’er the land
That erst the harvest bore;
The sword is heavy in the hand,
And we return no more. 
The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,
Our banner of the war,
And ripples in the Running Ox,
And we return no more. 
Across our stubble acres now
The teams go four and four;
But out-worn elders guide the plough,
And we return no more. 
And now the women heavy-eyed
Turn through the open door
From gazing down the highway wide,
Where we return no more. 
The shadows of the fruited close